


if i was born as a blackthorn tree

by iphigenias



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Domesticity, Epistolary, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: Gene buys a house, Babe sends a letter, and tomatoes are a metaphor for life.





	if i was born as a blackthorn tree

**Author's Note:**

> title is from nfwmb by hozier
> 
> as ever, this is based off the hbo portrayals of easy company, and no disrespect is intended to the real men

Gene buys a house after the war. He knows his maman wants him to stay home; can feel it in the way she clutches him too tight and too long in a hug; can see it in the shimmer of saline in her eyes when he tells her he’s moving. A part of him wants to stay too; wants things to go back to the way they were, before. Wants to sit on the back porch with the sticky bayou heat clinging to him like a second skin and not think about how he knows what skin really feels like now; knows how it can peel off a man’s body til he’s naught but muscle and bone and still leave a beating heart beneath. Gene wants these things like good Catholics want salvation—but salvation and stigmata go hand in hand in hand, and Gene’s never claimed to be holy.

So Gene buys a house after the war. Louisiana, still. It’s the furthest from the Bois Jacques he can find. The owner was in the war, too. He’s still there. Gene knows better than most that souls don’t leave the battlefield. Not really. He wonders if his own will return there, one day. Those months in the snow are a blip along the years of Gene’s life, but sometimes it feels as though they’re all he’s ever known. Besides, Heaven is white and bright and treacherous—to him that sounds like Bastogne.

He gets a good deal because the owner is dead and his widow wants nothing to do with it. She takes one look at Gene the day he signs the contract; looks at the shadows beneath his eyes and the bruised and red-scraped knuckles from waking up not remembering where he is, and she knows. Her face does this small, slow crumple, like the last exhale of a dying lung exposed to the air. Gene knows what that looks like. She turns away and he watches her shoulders shake. Thinks about Hitler and how many Germans died in his name. Thinks about the Crusades from his school history lessons, a lifetime ago, and can’t find a difference. _Gott mit uns_ , the dying kraut soldier Gene had stumbled upon on D-Day whispered to him. Blood was speckled across his mouth and chin like stubble; he was too young to grow the real thing. _Gott mit uns_. God is with us. Gene found it hard to pray, after that.

The day he moves in is Louisiana-hot. His shirt sticks to his skin. The rooms are empty save for the bed that’s been bolted down. Gene looks at it. Wonders how he’ll sleep between a dead man’s sheets. Thinks that he’ll sleep just fine.

He unpacks slowly. He has time. Looks at the whitewashed walls of the house and thinks, _I can’t live like this_. Buys a bucket of yellow paint the next day and spends the rest of the week letting in the sunshine. Keeps track of the days by the men who died on them. Wednesday, Hoobler, Muck, Penkala. Thursday, Private Jackson. Gene doesn’t go to church but he falls to his knees in his house anyway, skin pressed against the floorboards hard enough to feel pain. His maw-maw used to say that each person she couldn’t save left a mark on her soul. She always believed that was what would kill her in the end. Gene can’t count the number of men he watched die, except he can. Thinks maybe they’re the reason his heart feels so heavy. Wonders if God, laden with the names and lives of every man, woman, and child killed in his name, feels the same. Wonders if God has a heart at all.

Maman would call that thought blasphemous. Gene just calls it war.

It takes him three weeks to finish painting the house. Every room inside is a soft, buttery yellow, that lights up like a candle when the sun hits its walls. He covers the peeling cream paint on the exterior with a blue the can calls “periwinkle.” The front door he leaves as is, off white and creaking on its hinges, perhaps as a reminder of everything he’s been trying to forget since coming home—or maybe just because he’s run out of paint.

A year ago, Gene was stitching up the unnecessary and unavoidable wounds the men still suffered, tucked away in the haven of Berchtesgaden. Half a year before that, Gene was elbow deep in the viscera of a man too far gone to save but who Gene had to try and save anyway. The blood was a sickeningly bright and steaming patch of crimson against the snow.

Today, he sits on his front porch and looks at the sparse front garden running all the way to the road and thinks that maybe, maybe this is progress. Louisiana is far enough away from the forests and fields of Europe that Gene, sitting in the half-shade, half-sunshine of his porch in the mid-afternoon, clad in nothing but khakis and a paint-stained t-shirt, hair free of his helmet and hands free from but never clean of the blood of his brothers, can almost pretend it was all just a fever dream—almost. But almosts can save lives— _almost hit the artery, half an inch more and_ — _almost missed the infection spreading beneath the bandage, a couple more days and_ — _almost got it from a shell that landed in an empty foxhole, two yards closer and_ —and Gene’s learned to be thankful for them.

*

It’s been two months in the house and Gene has tried and failed to grow a veggie patch with hands that have let too many men die when the letter arrives. Gene sits abruptly on his porch steps and opens the envelope with shaking fingers.

 _Gene_ , it reads. _I tried calling but your ma said you’d moved and didn’t have a phone in your new place, so I hope this is OK instead. I’ve been trying to keep in touch with some of the guys since we got back but it’s hard with everyone being all over. Think you could write back to give me some peace of mind that you ain’t dead yet? Bill says hi, and that the doc that chopped off his leg ain’t shit compared to you. If anything, writing back will give me a break from listening to his crap all day long._ It’s signed with just _Babe_. There’s a return address on the back of the envelope.

Gene reads the letter two, three, ten times til he has it memorised. Puts in on the fridge held in place by a cheap magnet from the gas station in town and glances at the handwriting every time he reaches inside for a beer. That elegant, curving _G_ of his name. The spiral inside every _O,_ the same way Gene’s turn out when he writes too quick to pay attention. The way the name _Babe_ looks on his fridge, like it belongs there.

It takes Gene a week and a half to reply. In that time he has read the letter going on thirty-seven times and been over to his ma’s to steal a pad of paper from his old school things and bought a bundle of pencils from the corner store down the road. It takes another day or two of staring at the blank paper, pencil in hand, before he can get the words out.

 _Edward_ , he writes, because he thinks it will make Babe laugh and groan. _Not dead yet. Working on getting a phone for this place but sometimes it’s nice not to have one. Stops nosy privates like you looking me up, for one._ Gene pauses. Is that too mean? Then he remembers who he’s writing to. _I’m well, if you wanted to know. Louisiana is hot as usual. All my tomatoes have died._ _I hope you ain’t getting Bill into too much trouble there._ He smiles, just imagining Babe’s reaction to those words. _Tell him hi, and that I ain’t no doctor anymore, but thanks for the compliment anyway. Gene._

It’s short, but so was Babe’s. Gene folds up the letter before he can second-guess himself and seals it inside the envelope already marked with Babe’s Philly address and a stamp. He’ll post it tomorrow. Right now he needs a drink.

*

Babe’s reply comes three weeks later. Since writing back, Gene has planted cucumber and squash. He reads the letter leaning against his house in the shade, the soil on his hands staining the paper.

 _Gene_ , it reads. _Are you a nun? BECAUSE ONLY THE NUNS CALL ME EDWARD. If so, congratulations on the new lifestyle. If not, take a hike. Or call me Babe. We both know which is the better option. (And don’t you dare say take a hike!) I’m glad you’re doing well, even if your tomatoes are not. Ma says make sure to plant them where they can get 6 to 8 hours of sun and to remove the bottom leaves so diseases can’t spread. Don’t worry, I only told her the advice was for a “friend.” Wouldn’t want to embarrass you. Philly is hot enough that I’m finding it hard to remember what winter feels like. Then again I’ve seen enough snow for a lifetime. It doesn’t snow down there, does it? Must be nice. So what are you doing if you’re not out doctoring? (That’s a real word, I looked it up.) I’ve been doing some heavy lifting down at the docks to pay the rent but it ain’t what I want to do for the rest of my life. If I’m being honest, I don’t really know what I do want to do. Just not this. Bill says it’s fine that I don’t know yet but it’s hard to listen to him when he’s got his whole life sorted out. Did I tell you he got married? A couple of the guys came up for the wedding. Toye and Buck and me, of course. His wife’s a perfect match for him. The first time I met her she kneed a guy in the crotch for pulling up her skirt. Sometimes I think we would’ve won the war a whole lot quicker if women could fight too. Don’t melt in the heat, Gene. Babe._

*

_Babe. Bill’s wife sounds wonderful. How are the other guys? I haven’t talked to anyone except you since being back. Tell your ma I’ve moved on from tomatoes but thank her for the advice, and if she has any tips on cultivating squash I would be glad to hear them. I’ve been doing some building work, myself. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s a nice feeling to make something strong and lasting. It’s hot, though. The humidity is what gets to you here. And yes, our winters are too mild for snow. I’ll have lived a good life if I never see that stuff again. Maybe you would feel more grounded if you were somewhere where it didn’t feel like Europe all over again? Just a suggestion. There’s nothing wrong with odd jobs and Christ, Babe, you’re 23. You’ve got time._

*

_Construction sounds nice. I get what you mean about building something strong and lasting. It feels like all I’ve ever done is take things apart._

*

_The squash died. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong._

*

_Bill’s wife is pregnant. He says I’ll be godfather. Christ, Gene, I can’t even tie my own shoelaces right. I still do the bunny ears._

*

_There was an accident at work today. Not anything serious but the guy was calling for help and I did nothing. I don’t know why. I knew what to do. I just couldn’t do it._

*

_There’s guys at the docks who served in the Pacific and Christ, Gene, the way they talk it sounds like we were the lucky ones. And then I feel guilty for thinking that because if we were lucky why the hell didn’t we all make it out alive?_

*

_Tell your ma her advice for the rutabagas worked. Now I just need a recipe to cook them in._

*

_There’s news footage about the effects of the bombs they dropped on Japan. It looks like Landsberg._

*

_Plans for Christmas?_

*

_My train gets in at 14:00._

*

“Are you sure this is winter?” Babe says when he steps off the train. His hands are in his pockets, on his hips, running through his hair, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. He smiles sheepishly at Gene and the world feels broken open.

“Nice, ain’t it?” Gene smiles back.

“Christ, Gene,” Babe says, and the cadence is just like Gene remembers. “I missed your voice.” Gene hugs him instead of replying. Babe is warm from the train and the too-many layers he’s wearing. His red hair is longer than Gene’s ever seen it, but curls at the ends so it doesn’t look unkempt. Gene got a haircut yesterday, and tries not to read too much into his own timing.

They break apart and stay standing too close together and Gene can’t seem to stop himself from smiling. “I missed yours,” he says honestly, nights of reading and re-reading Babe’s letters and imagining them being spoken out loud between them. “Have you gotten more freckles?”

“Shaddup,” Babe groans, rolling his eyes. “Bill says I look like I have measles.” He meets Gene’s gaze and smiles again. “What say you, doc?” The way Babe says it doesn’t make Gene anxious in the way he thought it would.

“I say Bill is full of shit,” Gene replies, and Babe laughs out loud. _And that they look nice_ , Gene doesn’t say, and grabs Babe’s bag from the ground before his mouth betrays him. “Come on. You can get a certified doctor’s opinion at home.”

The car ride is quick, and Gene’s fears that the easy way he and Babe communicated in their letters would be lost face-to-face prove unfounded. Babe could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and as he drums his fingers against the armrest, Louisianian winter sun streaming through the window and illuminating his hair like a halo of fire, something deep and warm and right settles in Gene’s gut.

“This is your house?” Babe says when they pull up, quiet awe in his voice, and Gene rubs at the back of his neck. “You did this?”

“I painted it, yeah,” Gene says, grabbing Babe’s bag again and leading him up the steps. “It’s pretty small so there’s no guest room, but the fold-out is comfy.”

“Sounds perfect,” Babe says, eyes roaming the walls with fascination, and Gene has to look away.

They make casserole with rutabagas for dinner, Gene peeling and chopping, Babe cooking, roles reversed after Babe had almost sliced his thumb off with the knife. Gene has no dining table but the kitchen bench does just fine, and they help themselves to seconds and thirds of the casserole and beers in the fridge as the night unspools around them.

“This is nice,” Babe says, nearing midnight. They’re curled up on opposite ends of the couch and all Gene wants to do is rest his hands against Babe’s flushed cheeks and feel the warmth of them seep into his bones. It’s not a new thought, and it’s not a new feeling, but the cosy living room off the bayou in Louisiana is as far from the icy trenches in the Bois Jacques as anywhere in the world.

“We have to make up your bed,” Gene says sleepily, tilting his head back against the cushions.

“It can wait,” Babe says softly, and when Gene looks at him, all soft curling hair and folded coltish limbs, sitting on Gene’s couch in Gene’s house in Gene’s home, he is already looking back. “Why did you want me here for Christmas, Gene?” Babe asks, as if he already knows the answer.

Gene’s voice shakes when he replies. “Why did you come?”

“Because your tomatoes died,” Babe says, and then he’s moving, shifting across the couch until he’s close enough to find Gene’s hand and hold it. “Can I?” he asks, after the fact, and Gene nods, and pulls Babe to him, and they fall asleep like that on the couch, Gene underneath him, close enough to count the freckles like stars strewn across his flushed red cheeks.

*

Christmas comes and goes. It’s not a day either of them care to celebrate. Gene digs out his rutabagas and Babe cooks them and Gene buys rice and Babe buys beer and Gene makes the bed and Babe takes out the trash and Gene sets the table for two and Babe leaves his shoes by the door, next to Gene’s, like they belong there, like they always have. Babe starts working with Gene in January, goes home in February, and comes back a week later with the rest of his things and a stern warning from Bill to visit when the baby is born. In March, Gene buys a bucket of paint and covers the white of the front door with green. In April, Babe and Gene visit Philadelphia and baby Eugene cradled in Frances Guarnere’s exhausted arms. In May, back home again, the heat making their shirts stick to their backs with sweat, Babe takes Gene to a nursery and buys a tomato plant. Gene pats it gently into the soil, Babe on the phone with his ma shouting instructions out to Gene through the window. May turns to June, and the tomatoes don’t die. June turns to July, and the tomatoes don’t die. In August, the sun too hot to tend to the plants during the day, Babe kneels in the soil beside Gene at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night and kisses him. They are careful not to crush the tomatoes.

**Author's Note:**

> [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shotgun_house#/media/File:Campground_Historic_District.JPG) is what i imagined gene's house to look like if anyone's interested


End file.
